


'cause i know it goes bad to worse (you said it first)

by obsceme



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: 3+1 Things, Child Abuse, Developing Relationship, Happy Ending, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, and it shows, i wrote this to abate my pre-s3 panic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 15:18:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19466689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obsceme/pseuds/obsceme
Summary: Three times Billy seeks refuge at Steve’s place, and one time Steve saves him the trouble.





	'cause i know it goes bad to worse (you said it first)

**Author's Note:**

> title is from bad to worse by ra ra riot. yes all my fic titles are song lyrics, no i will not be taking any questions at this time. unbeta'd as always. enjoy~

**1.**

Steve is one hundred percent sure that Billy doesn’t sleep enough.

When he shows up on the doorstep, covered in a new collection of bruises, Steve fixates on the purple bags ringing his eyes. Bumps and bruises he can’t fully fix, not with inexperienced hands and the pathetic excuse for a first-aid kit that now lives on the table next to his bed. 

But that full-bodied exhaustion, the kind that has Billy collapsing into a heap on Steve’s bed - the kind that has him puffing out soft snores almost instantly, hands tucked under his chin - is something Steve can fix. 

It’s quiet in the room, save for the soft little noises Billy makes in his sleep. Steve soaks a cotton ball in rubbing alcohol, dabbing it lightly on the cut that’s split open on the bridge of Billy’s nose. Most likely broken again, if the swelling is anything to go by. An ugly bruise, green-tinged purple, has made its home there, spilling across his nose and onto his cheeks. 

Clearly, a fist had connected with his face - probably at high speed from a close range, if the damage is anything to go by - and Steve isn’t loath to think of who that fist might belong to. He knows. Billy never tells him, but he knows. 

The one time he’d met Neil Hargrove was enough for him to understand exactly what type of person he is.

Steve brushes a delicate golden curl from Billy’s forehead. There’s a lump there, but no bruising as of yet. Probably the result of Billy being knocked to the ground, his head making contact with something on the way down. The thought leaves a sour taste in Steve’s mouth.

“You deserve better.”

The words are spoken into the quiet of the room, almost inaudibly. Billy doesn’t stir, but his restless twitches seem to stop. Or maybe Steve just has an active imagination. It’s nice to see Billy at peace, either way. 

Hopper should know. Neil belongs in a windowless cement box. Hopper would see to it that he got there. But Billy, from this infinite well of kindness that he draws upon when no one is looking, insists that Neil treats Max right. That he’s a good father to her. 

Billy says he isn’t selfish. That he won’t take that from Max. Says she may hate him for a lot of things, and he can deal with that. But he can’t deal with her hating him for ripping the family apart, again. Not over a couple of scrapes and bruises.

Steve always reminds him that it’s several degrees worse than that. That he knows he’s not selfish - and it’s not selfish to ask for help. Billy just shakes his head because _I can take a lot of shit, Steve. I don’t break that easy_. For Max, he’ll withstand anything. Even if she doesn’t know it. 

Steve doesn’t have the heart to tell him that he’s pretty sure, at this point, that Max would be far happier with Neil removed from the equation. That even if she hates Billy, she probably isn’t too keen on watching her stepfather beat her brother to a pulp on a nightly basis.

He doesn’t have the heart to say it, but he’s pretty sure Billy knows. Yet Billy desperately clings to this idea that Max is better off with two parents, even if one is a monster. Maybe not to her, but to Billy. Often to Susan, when Neil thinks no one is around to hear. Steve both understands Billy’s desperation to hold onto this idea, and doesn’t. 

There are, however, a few things that Steve does fully understand. He understands that it’s not his place to make decisions for Billy. He understands that it’s not his place to meddle in Billy’s life without his permission. He certainly understands that despite not having the right to insert himself into Billy’s personal affairs, there are other ways to help him.

So Steve always answers the door. At ten o’clock at night, or three in the morning. Always has the first aid kit within reach. He tends to Billy’s wounds and gives him a safe place to rest his head. Has been for the last few months, since this strange, fragmented friendship began. They don’t talk about it, not after Billy leaves, early enough to get home before Neil wakes up. But Billy knows the deal. 

There’s a bag of frozen peas in the freezer that probably should’ve been eaten by now. Instead, Steve wraps them in a towel and holds it gently against Billy’s swollen cheekbone. With careful fingers, he smoothes a Snoopy band-aid across the split bridge of his nose. It must tickle, because Billy’s nose wrinkles a bit and he sniffles lightly in his sleep. A small voice in the back of Steve’s mind whispers _cute_.

The bleeding from Billy’s left nostril is slowly but surely coming to a stop. Steve uses the towel - now damp from the thawing peas - every now and then to mop up the mess before it can drip across Billy’s face. 

Billy doesn’t look quite like himself when he sleeps. Almost the same, close enough to the original to almost go unnoticed, but there’s a little aftertaste. A little indication that Steve isn’t looking at the same person who carries the burden of trauma with him everywhere he goes.

He looks peaceful. Unburdened. Seemingly several years younger, like someone hit the rewind button and let it run until the crease in Billy’s brow and the frown tugging on his lips disappeared. Like it was never there in the first place. 

Steve keeps himself awake long enough to fix as much of the damage as he can. But his sleep-deprived eyes begin to droop as the night goes on. The now mostly-thawed bag of peas is discarded somewhere next to the bed. It’ll melt into a puddle on Steve’s carpeted floor, but he’ll worry about that later.

For now, he moves to carefully tug off Billy’s boots, lining them up neatly beside the bed. Easy access for when Billy needs to make a quick exit the moment the sun begins to rise. Pulls the blankets up over Billy’s shoulders before settling himself on the other side of the bed. Falls asleep to the sound of Billy’s calm, even breathing.

Steve doesn’t rouse when Billy makes his exit in the early hours of the morning. But Billy never leaves without saying goodbye, not really. There’s a towel soaking up a pool of water next to his bed, and the bag of peas is back in the freezer. Two cigarettes rest on Steve’s nightstand, taking up a spot that had been empty the night before.

It’s the closest to a thank you that Steve will get. The cool breeze from his open bedroom window rustles his hair, the smoke burning his lungs nicely upon his first inhale. A nice treat to wake up to after a long night. 

Billy makes an effort to convey with actions what he can’t say with words. Subtle things that perhaps don’t outwardly look like attempts at atonement. But Steve understands. Billy is trying.

And that effort doesn’t go unnoticed.

* * *

**2.**

“It’s not broken.”

“Noses don’t just look like that. It’s broken.”

Steve, from where he’s seated on the toilet, points at the divot in the bridge of Billy’s nose. Billy prods gently at the swollen mess, glaring at Steve in the mirror. 

“I’m not going anywhere to get it set,” Billy insists, turning away from the reflection staring back at him. “I’ll just get him to punch it from the other side. Push it back in place.”

It’s said with a toothy grin, but Steve just frowns, folding his arms across his chest. “That’s not funny.”

“Oh, come on, Stevie. Admit it. It’s a little funny.”

“It’s not going to be funny when you can’t smell anything five years from now,” Steve grumbles. 

Billy shrugs. “Smelling things is overrated. The most useless sense, if you ask me.”

He’s leaning against Steve’s bathroom counter, using a damp washrag to blot up the blood that has long since dried under his nose. There’s another nasty bruise blooming across his jaw, but Neil clearly has some sort of obsession with Billy’s nose. Almost like he fixates on slamming his fist into it every time he starts in on him.

“At least let me ice it,” Steve urges. 

“I think I can ice my own fuckin’ nose, Harrington. I’m not an invalid.”

Steve arches a brow. “You never do it right. Or long enough. We have to get some of that swelling to go down.”

“We?” Billy asks, turning to face him fully. “Who the fuck said _we_ need to do anything?”

“Christ, Billy. I’m not asking you to go steady. If you’re going to haul your ass to my doorstep in the middle of the night you could at least let me help.”

This doesn’t happen often. Generally, whenever Billy makes an appearance, he’s barely conscious. Just enough to get him behind the wheel and to Steve’s house in one piece. But sometimes, it’s bad, but not so bad that Billy can’t keep his eyes open or his body upright. Tonight is clearly one of those nights.

Billy is exceptionally bitchy when he’s not borderline concussed. Also incredibly uncooperative. 

“If I wanted someone to harp at me like a fuckin’ woman, I might as well just go the fuck home.”

“Hey, come on. No.” Steve grabs Billy’s bicep as he turns to leave. “I’ll - shit. I’ll stop. At least just - just crash here for a few hours?”

Steve isn’t strong enough to hold Billy in place, and they both know it. But Billy often lets Steve pretend. This time is no different. He doesn’t make a further move to leave, feet fixed in the doorway of the bathroom.

“Only because you begged.” Billy’s smile is all teeth.

It’s a defense mechanism if Steve ever saw one. He pointedly keeps that to himself. 

They’re curled up at opposite ends of the couch, watching Cheers reruns. Or, rather, Steve is watching. Billy is dozing quietly, one cheek resting on a soft throw pillow. He’d fallen into a restless slumber two episodes in, leaving Steve up with his thoughts.

Not like they talk much when they’re both conscious. But Billy’s cognizant presence is often a comfort, even if Steve prefers to see him resting peacefully. Comforted by the knowledge that, for a few short hours, Billy is blissfully unaware of the life he refers to as a Complete Shitstorm.

Tonight, however, Billy is fussy. Argumentative while awake, restless in his sleep. Steve isn’t comforted by either state of consciousness. 

It isn’t until Steve heads into the kitchen for a glass of water that Billy stirs, almost like Steve's lack of presence pulled him directly from his slumber. He hears the sound of a groan, followed by what sounds like - maybe a whimper? Steve makes a mad dash for the couch.

Billy is cupping his nose, eyes screwed shut. The light from the television is enough to illuminate his face. Blood spills from his nose again, trickling out from between his fingers.

Steve has the first aid kit, towels, and an ice pack that he’d finally splurged on in hand within a matter of minutes. 

“Hey, hey. It’s okay, don’t touch it. Tilt your head back.”

It takes Billy a while to fully wake up. Steve had learned that pretty quickly. It also happens to be when he’s most receptive to direction, when he’s most pliable and unguarded - other than when he’s fast asleep. Billy tips his head back without a fuss.

Steve holds one of his mother’s pristine white dishtowels under Billy’s nose, watching the fabric stain red as he staunches the blood. 

“Pillow slipped,” Billy mumbles. It’s almost unintelligible. “Hit m’face on the table. Gotta clean it up.”

There’s an unmistakable splatter of blood on the side table. It’d been pulled close to keep Billy’s glass of water within reach. Steve had been insistent that Billy didn’t need to be getting up and down all evening, to which Billy had argued that he’s not a pregnant woman and can get the fuck up off the couch if he needs to. He still complied nonetheless. 

Billy never needs to know that Steve is regretting, just a little bit, winning that argument. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Steve shushes, one hand on Billy’s shoulder to keep him from getting up. “Just rest.”

Steve bites back the _I’m going to take care of you_ that’s resting at the tip of his tongue. Instead, mops up the remnants of blood. Cradles Billy’s jaw delicately in one hand, using the other to hold the ice pack to his nose. Combs back the stray curls that fall into his eyes - those pretty blue eyes that could convince Steve to do just about anything without Billy having to say a word.

“‘S better. Feels good.”

There’s a long moment where Steve isn’t quite sure if Billy actually spoke, or if he’s having an incredibly vivid dream. But when Billy lets out this little contented sigh, half-asleep with his face cradled in Steve’s hands, Steve’s heart clenches and he knows. Knows that it was real. 

When the ice pack turns mushy and tepid, Steve lets it fall to the floor with a wet plop. Billy’s mostly asleep once again, more relaxed now that his nose is numbed out from the ice. His breathing is slow and even, and Steve watches the rise and fall of his chest for longer than he’d care to admit. 

Billy’s head is craned back at an angle that will quickly become exceptionally uncomfortable if it remains there. Against his better judgment, Steve helps Billy lie down flat, resting his head in his lap. Runs his fingers through Billy’s hair as he sleeps, until Steve himself drifts off.

There are still two cigarettes waiting for him on the coffee table when he wakes up.

* * *

**3.**

At least one rib is broken, based on the way it juts out to the side at an awkward angle, making it easily discernible from the others. Steve’s hands ghost over it, a worried crease forming between his brows. 

“It’s definitely broken. Fractured at the very least. I can’t fix that with an ice pack and aspirin.”

“Didn’t think I asked you to fix it, pretty boy,” Billy sneers. 

Steve cuts him a stern glare, hands fixed on his hips. “You need to go to the hospital. It could puncture a lung.”

“Promise?”

“You’re not funny, you know,” Steve sighs. He rubs his temples and pretends not to notice the look of guilt that briefly flashes across Billy’s face.

Billy loses his venomous edge, suddenly looking very tired. “I think if I just. Like. Wrap it? It’ll heal right.”

He doesn’t have to ask for Steve’s help. It goes without saying. There’s a roll of bandages in the medicine cabinet, and Steve takes his time wrapping them securely around Billy’s torso, trying to keep them snug enough so that his ribs will heal somewhat correctly. 

“You can’t keep going on like this,” Steve says, later, when Billy is tucked safely into bed. 

He’s perched on the windowsill with an arm propped up on one knee. The night air is crisp and cool. The tendrils of smoke curling up from his cigarette creep up into the night sky, slowly dissipating as they go.

“Don’t I have Doctor Harrington to keep my shit straight? I think I’ll be alright.”

“I’m not always going to be around,” Steve says quietly. “Maybe only through the summer.”

Billy’s eyes burn holes into the ceiling. “I’ll be back in San Diego by then. Works out perfectly.”

“Yeah, if he doesn’t fucking kill you by then.” Steve hadn’t meant to snap. He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“You say that like that’s such a bad thing,” Billy says after a few moments of silence. 

Steve looks over at him sharply, only to find himself staring directly into those icy pools of blue. He throws his half-finished smoke out the window. Sets his jaw angrily. 

“Don’t say shit like that.”

“You got a problem with the truth, Stevie boy?”

If he weren’t already beat to hell, Steve would probably smack him. They just stare at each other in silence instead. Billy isn’t going to back down, Steve knows that. But this time, he’ll be damned if he does, either.

“I think you’re full of shit,” Steve finally answers. “I think if you really wanted to die, you wouldn’t be dragging yourself to my doorstep every time he beats you within an inch of your life. I think you want help, but you don’t know how the fuck to ask for it.”

“King Steve, professional head shrinker. You gonna pick apart my childhood now, too? Tell me how my mom dying manifests itself in mysterious and destructive ways?”

There’s a strange look on Billy’s face. Like he’d vomited up a bunch of shit he’d desperately been trying to keep locked up deep down inside of him.

“I didn’t know your mom died.” Steve’s voice is hushed, but it still feels too loud in the quiet stillness of his bedroom.

Billy casts his eyes back up to the ceiling, looking a little more than defeated. “Lots of shit you don’t know, pretty boy. ‘S not like we’re friends.”

“Well, this is embarrassing. I planned for us to get matching best friend tattoos soon. Got us matching best friend t-shirts. Made a _best friends forever_ collage.”

The joke is weak, and Steve’s smile is thin. But Billy gets a kick out of it at least. Snorts and looks over at Steve incredulously, shaking his head.

“You’re ridiculous, and I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

Billy cracks a small half-smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “No, I don’t.”

A few more beats of silence pass before Steve moves to the bed, slipping in quietly next to Billy. He curls his hands under one of his pillows. 

“I’m sorry about your mom.”

Blue eyes peer over at him. “‘S not a big deal. Was a long time ago, you know?”

“Grief doesn’t have a time limit,” Steve says, his voice quiet. He’s now staring at Billy’s profile, eyes tracing the curve of his jaw and the now-stilted slope of his nose. 

No one speaks for a long time. Steve starts to wonder if Billy is asleep. Listens carefully for the familiar sound of his steady breathing - something he’s grown familiar with after having Billy sleeping in his bed several times a month since their little arrangement began.

Then Billy turns his head. Their eyes meet in the darkness. “I should - you know. Thank you. For all this shit you put up with.”

“You don’t have to. You know that.”

“Should anyway. Especially after…” Billy falters. Looks away. Clears his throat. “What I did. To you. Never apologized. Didn’t even offer to help.”

“I probably wouldn’t have let you,” Steve tells him honestly. “Not then, anyway.”

“Would you now?”

“In a heartbeat.”

Steve watches him chew on his bottom lip. Reaches out a hand until their pinkies touch. Listens to the sound of Billy’s ragged intake of breath, smiling just a little bit.

“You said once,” Billy starts, his finger twitching, “that I deserved better. You mean it?”

“You heard that?” 

Billy glances over at him, still gnawing on his lip. Asks again, “did you mean what you said?”

“Of course I meant it,” Steve tells him. His cheeks flush. “Wouldn't have said it if I didn’t.”

A yawn escapes Billy’s lips. He’s quiet for another long stretch, his eyes drooping. Steve closes his eyes, doesn’t think Billy is going to speak again, until, “you’re better, you know.”

“What?” Steve asks, his eyes popping open.

“You said I deserved better. You’re better.”

Steve feels his heart hammering against his ribcage. Doesn’t quite know what to say. Doesn’t get the chance to formulate a response, because a moment later, Billy’s breathing is slow and even once again. He’s out like a light. Steve’s heart feels like it’s lodged up in his throat.

He doesn’t sleep, not until the first slivers of sunlight begin to filter through the window. When he wakes, hours later, Billy is nowhere in sight. But there are another two cigarettes placed neatly side-by-side on his nightstand, and a note tucked underneath. It just says _Quarry, 9pm_.

Steve smiles, holding the note to his chest.

* * *

**+1**

It’s an hour past nine, and Steve has long since come to the conclusion that Billy isn’t going to show. He’s lingering at the quarry long enough to finish the last cigarette in his pack, pretending like he isn’t at least a little bit disappointed.

Steve is pretty sure Neil has prevented Billy’s appearance tonight. Nonetheless, it still stings. Because there’s the possibility that maybe Neil hadn’t said a word. That maybe Billy just didn’t show up simply because he changed his mind.

The ride home is quiet. The house is silent, empty. Steve deposits his keys on the kitchen counter. Scrubs a hand over his face, then cracks open a beer.

He’s just raising the can to his lips when the phone rings.

“Hello?” Steve answers. Can’t help but hope Billy’s voice crackles through the receiver. 

Instead, he just hears Max. “Steve? Are you -” a loud crash and a pause, then, “shit. It’s - it’s Neil. I don’t - he’s out of control. I can’t tell if - it doesn’t look like Billy is breathing.”

Steve feels like a block of ice has been deposited into the pit of his stomach. “Fuck, okay, I’m - I’ll call Hopper. I’ll be there soon just - hold on. Okay?”

“Okay,” she says, and Steve can hear someone yelling in the background. “Shit. I have to go.”

The line goes dead. The next few moments are a mad scramble. It takes Steve three tries before he reaches the Chief, but he only has to shout a few words before Hopper is telling him he’s on his way, the line going dead once again.

Steve bolts out the front door. Tries to wrench open the driver’s side door of the beemer, but finds that it’s locked. Fumbles for his keys. Can’t control the shaking of his hands, keeps dropping them onto the pavement. 

“ _Fuck_!” He can feel tears pricking behind his eyelids. Finally, _finally_ , gets the door open. Starts her up and speeds out of the driveway so fast that his tires screech on the asphalt.

He’s speeding like a maniac, but the streets are mostly empty. Quiet. Steve’s brain is firing rapidly, going in between panicking and berating himself. He should’ve told Hopper sooner. Should’ve gotten Billy out of that house. Should’ve kicked Neil’s ass up and down the street the first time he heard him call Billy a faggot.

A lot of things he should’ve done. But didn’t. Now he gets to pay for that.

When Steve pulls up, he doesn’t bother parking along the curb. Just throws the beemer in park in the middle of the street, flinging himself out of the car. The front of the house is a mess of red and blue lights, cops and EMTs scattered about the front lawn, some walking in and out of the house.

Hopper is walking Max out the front door. She has a blanket slung over her shoulders and a faraway look in her eyes.

“I thought I told you to stay put,” Hopper says as Steve comes to a halt in front of them. “You shouldn’t be here, kid.”

Steve doesn’t acknowledge his words, just fixes his eyes on Max. “Are you okay?”

“He’s in the second ambulance,” Max says, ignoring his question. “They said he’s alive.”

Hopper gives him a long look, then says, “you can follow to the hospital. Let the EMTs do their job.”

Steve watches them walk to the first ambulance, where he can now see Susan is sitting. Her face is in her hands and her shoulders shake. Max seats herself next to her. He looks around the front of the house. Finally catches sight of Neil, cuffed and shoved into the back of a police cruiser. Officer Callahan stands next to it, writing something down on his notepad.

Neil happens to look up. Catches Steve’s eyes. Slowly, and with purpose, Steve lifts his hand. Flips him off, practically in slow motion. Mouths _you’re gonna rot in there_ , and gives him one last long, hard look, before heading back to the street to move the beemer.

The hospital waiting room isn’t nearly as crowded as it was the last time he was here. But it looks the same, the fluorescents casting an eerie glow over everything. It still smells like antiseptic and stale coffee. Steve sits alone, his head in his hands. Waiting.

Hours go by. His stomach churns the entire time, waves of anxiety crashing over him again, and again, and again. And yet despite how agonizing this waiting game may be, Steve knows Billy is feeling worse. So much worse.

So he sticks it out. Sucks down that shitty coffee and a stale donut. Bounces his knee as he watches the clock. It’s going on seven in the morning when Hopper enters the waiting room. Fixes his gaze on Steve, then nods.

“He’s asking for you.”

Billy looks like shit. That’s the first thought Steve has when he enters the room. But it’s a small blessing that he at least looks better than what Steve had envisioned. His head is bandaged, both eyes ringed with various shades of black, purple, and blue. There’s an unmistakable handprint bruise around his throat. And that’s just what he can see from the doorway. Steve feels like he might throw up.

“How’re you feeling?” Steve asks instead. It’s a stupid question, but he’s honestly not quite sure what he should say.

Billy’s eyes flicker over to him. A small smile tugs on his lips. “I think I’ve been better.”

Steve makes his way to the armchair adjacent to the bed. Seats himself quietly, then meets Billy’s eyes once again. Flinches at the bruises, tries not to show it. “Hey now. I thought I was better.”

A wheezy laugh slips from Billy’s lips, and then he’s wincing, one hand grasping his side. “You’re not allowed to make me laugh. I was a dick. Didn’t show up tonight.”

“I think you have a pretty valid excuse.”

“Excuses, excuses. Still kept you waiting. Wasn’t very gentlemanly of me.”

They both laugh weakly before falling silent. Steve chews on the inside of his cheek. Looks down at his hands, then back at Billy. “What happened?”

Billy doesn’t answer right away. Then sighs, and says, “I fucked up. Told him we were hanging out. Made him mad, said he didn’t need the whole town knowing his faggot son was running around with the Harrington boy at all hours of the night.”

Steve swallows around the lump in his throat. He doesn’t know what to say to that, either. Or, rather, there are too many things he wants to say, but can’t seem to settle on any one of them.

Instead, he reaches out his hand. Holds it out to Billy, and waits. There’s only a split-second pause before Billy takes it. Laces their fingers together and closes his eyes. 

“I’m sorry.”

Billy looks at him sharply. “Don’t start with that shit. There’s nothin’ you could’ve done.”

“I could’ve said something to someone. Gotten you out of that house. Don’t really know why I didn’t.” Steve can feel the guilt settle in the pit of his stomach.

“Because I asked you not to.”

“Yeah, but -”

Billy cuts him off. “You want to know _why_ you’re better? Because you’re the first goddamn person that respected me. Respected what I wanted, even after all my bullshit. Quit fuckin’ apologizing for being a decent person. Christ.”

Steve is getting kind of sick of the long stretches of silence. But there’s so much that he wants to say, so many thoughts rushing around in his head. Too much to sort through, not enough time to piece together a decent response. 

“You’re free now, you know,” is what he settles on.

“Maybe,” Billy acknowledges. “I’ve got a record. Might make my case against him weaker.”

“That fucking handprint around your throat is all the goddamn evidence they should need,” Steve spits, the anger welling up inside of him. “Did Hop tell you -”

When Billy cuts him off, his voice is gentle. “‘S up in the air. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it. I’m not.”

“He gets out, I’ll kill him,” Steve vows, his hand tightening around Billy’s just so.

“You’ll have to get in line, buddy.”

Steve deflates a little. Then arches a brow, giving Billy a questioning look. “Buddy? Really?”

“Okay. You’ll have to get in line, baby. How’s that sound?” Billy asks, his grin cheeky as all get-out.

“Hm. I think that works a lot better for me.”

“You sure about that?”

Steve stands. Leans over the bed. Presses his lips to Billy’s, gently. Slowly and sweetly kisses him. Brushes those soft curls off of Billy’s forehead as he does. Billy is soft and pliable under his fingertips, smiling into the kiss. Steve feels Billy’s fingers thread through his hair, cradling his head in his palm. 

Steve pulls back, smiling softly.

“Oh yeah. I’m sure.”

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on tumblr at [hartigays](https://hartigays.tumblr.com)


End file.
